


Nature Boy

by justlikeabaroness



Series: Nocturnes [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-20 09:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8244220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/justlikeabaroness
Summary: "There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy ..."





	

**Author's Note:**

> **This series is set in the same verse as my[Folie à Deux](http://archiveofourown.org/series/528004) series.** It's meant to be a prequel of sorts. So if you haven't read that, you may want to (though you don't have to) - but be advised that it is violent and sexual, definitely rated Explicit.
> 
> A/N: Mandarin is a very new language for me; I've only been studying for a short while, so please bear with any mistranslations or misspelled pinyin. I spell-check, but spellchecking pinyin is ... yeah. So please. Patience.
> 
> I'm really fucking sorry, Aeryn. XD

It's morning, but the previous night's activities have Kim Minseok aching and exhausted. He has a job to do, after all - technically, two. Backbreaking work in a subterranean cellar ripe with debris prone to trigger horrific images kept him awake, leading to reports to his superiors at the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency with too much detail and not enough substance. He knows, because he's seen with his own eyes, that there are often prisoners in the basement of the Yangcheon-gu tong hall. But there are none there now, and there's blood on the floor. 

He's been undercover as a landscaper at the tong hall for almost a month now, and he hates how little hard evidence he's been able to find. He and his superiors are convinced that the tong's purpose is malevolent, no matter how much community outreach Boss Wu Yifan and his silent lackeys might perform. Tongs have historically been akin to gangs, and while they've gone legit in the modern age, at least for the most part, there are holdouts. It's Minseok's job to find the proof of anything going on. 

His back throbs. He debates staying in bed, but decides it would draw more attention to him than necessary. So he hauls himself out and downstairs to do more work. At least he can mostly stay silent; his Mandarin is near fluent, but imperfect, and working with his hands is a solitary occupation. It's safer than risking himself in the offices. 

Indeed, today he winds up digging holes in the hall's tiny garden, preparing the soil for ginkgo trees designed to make the space look cozier and more inviting. Minseok enjoys working outside, feeling the breeze in his hair and appreciating a chance to get dirty in ways that don't involve blood or other bodily fluids. And despite how bad ginkgo nuts smell when they get stepped on, he likes the trees; they're gentle and hang low, enveloping everything in their path like rain. 

Another element of working in the garden that's far more useful than pleasant is that there are three sets of windows that overlook it. One is a storage room, another is a large hall used as a gathering place for talks or meetings, and the third is an office. Boss Wu's office is on a higher floor, but meetings are often held on the main floor, at least those that are deemed unimportant or insignificant. It's here, though, that Minseok has picked up a number of useful tidbits, no matter how "insignificant." All he has to do is "weed the flower bed" directly underneath. He's even found old electronic bugs there as he digs to put plants in their rightful places. 

He's in the flower bed today when he hears the voice of the underboss coming from directly above him. Minseok immediately flattens himself as low as possible, to ensure he won't be spotted while performing his job - well, technically, either of his jobs. The man is talking to someone else, but he recognizes a few words he's been trained to look for. " - expedite the sale," the underboss is saying. "Your fluency in Korean will be a great help to us - since we deal primarily with expatriates here, few of us speak fluent Korean, and it handicaps us in buying and selling." 

Another male voice replies, this one sounding younger and less racked by years of cigarette smoking. "It's a pleasure. Since graduating, I've looked for organizations like this to work for. If I wanted corporate life, I would have stayed in Beijing." 

"I can't speak for everyone here, but I enjoy being able to assist people who find themselves here and might be adrift, looking for familiar company or even just a common language," the underboss replies. "It pleases me to know you have a similar heart, Lù xiānsheng."

Someone new called Lù, who speaks fluent Korean? Likely nothing, but Minseok files the information away in his head. He does wonder what the tong is selling, though, and why. 

The man called Lù keeps talking. "I enjoy living here, but for those who don't have the ability to learn Korean, or who are trying and struggling, or who simply don't have time - I imagine it's a lot more inconvenient." 

"It can be, yes." The underboss coughs, a disgusting noise starting low in his gut and escaping by breaking out of the man's throat. "Please, though - feel free to explore for now. Later on I will introduce you to the buyer, and perhaps we can conclude some business." 

"Thank you, lǎobǎn." Lù says, with a polite smile in his voice. "I'll be sure to do that. This is a beautiful place, and I have a passing interest in some of the art." 

"You should visit Boss Wu's office sometime, when he is otherwise occupied. There are some lovely late 19th century screens in there that I'm certain he would like you to see." 

Minseok's heart leaps. A chance to get into the boss's office? It might be just what he needs to find out why they're selling so much and what they're selling. He has to figure out who this Lù is and maybe make friends. So far, it's the simplest possible way he's yet encountered to get into that office.

"I would like that," Lù is saying, with actual enthusiasm in his voice. "Thank you for letting me know. I'll ask Wu lăoshī at a later date." 

The underboss doesn't reply; Minseok assumes the conversation is over for now. It's been useful. Still, it bothers him. One of the most poisonous tendencies that the tong seems to have is to recruit. He's seen a few young men - always men - come through already, starting bright-eyed and eager to help, only to be thrust into doing things that Minseok knows will leave scars both emotional and physical. It claws at him that he hasn't been able to prevent physical harm done to people already - at least six prisoners from the basement cells have disappeared on his watch, and probably more. He hopes he can catch this one before it's too late. It's not part of his job description, but it might as well be. He doubts he could consider himself as having any morals at all if he turned a blind eye to suffering he can fix. He's a professional. But he is also a man. 

Minseok works through the afternoon, winding up exhausted and sweaty and thoroughly unfit for anything but a shower. Later that night, though, he heads back downstairs after said shower, as well as a quick nap. He is not, generally, a religious man. He's grown up in a Korea that hasn't allowed him that luxury. But his alter ego is from Hebei Province, and as such, Qiāng Yǐ finds comfort in faith, as is common there. Thus, he spends more time than he's comfortable with in the chapel of the town hall. Going undercover is second nature to him now, but there are lines he doesn't want to cross, and faking faith is one of them. It's always seemed wrong. But he knows procedure, and he knows to keep up appearances. 

This, at least, is the best time to go, when it's quiet. Many of the expatriates who live in the neighborhood worship here, but right now, the chattering āyís and their husbands have walked away, back toward their homes in Yangcheon-gu and Guro-gu. It's rare to get more than one or two other people in the chapel at this hour, which makes it ideal for him. Frankly, he feels like a voyeur if too many more are in the room when he is. Worship should be private, if one chooses to engage in it. 

He sits in the last row of fine wood pews, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. There's two or three others here, all men, none of whom seem particularly devout, but Minseok supposes it's not for him to judge. He's just here to do a job. He's never been much for church; maybe it's unjust, but he's _ibanin_ ; what Koreans call 'different,' and most Christians see men who like men as lost souls. He's not interested in pity. He tries to mind his own business, to stick to circles where his friends either don't know or don't care. His best friend is bisexual, his superiors either don't know or don't care. He has a nice flat, a good job, and he's happy enough, if a tad lonely. What need has he in churches?

He's tried to use it simply as a time for meditation. There's nothing wrong with stopping and reflecting, after all; Minseok figures he can always use more of that. It's been an insane few months, where Minseok has had barely any time to think, let alone take care of himself. Jongdae has told him there's an avalanche of mail waiting for him. His Tinder profile is gathering dust. And yet, he can't take a break; he can't exactly fuck off from an undercover assignment to go catch his breath. This is important work. The Triads are mean, vindictive bastards who have no problem hurting innocents, and the Korean kkangpae aren't much better. If he can lock some of those fuckers up, it's all worth it.

The door behind him opens, and he catches a glimpse of another man walking inside, small, but somehow solid, with dyed brown hair. He moves languidly, allowing himself to be propelled further forward rather than moving affirmatively. It's vaguely peaceful, and its total divergence from how most of the hall's visitors move is what catches Minseok's eye. After so long here, he's gotten very used to anomalous details. 

The man sits in a pew forward and to the left of Minseok, up a few rows, his side profile visible under the dim lighting. Shadows cast as he picks up his hands, resting his elbows on the pew in front of him and entwining long, fine fingers as he begins to pray. Minseok is struck by how still the man becomes, barely able to see breath or anything except wisps of brown hair refusing to lie still, dancing in the room's currents. Big brown eyes remain open, but the man rests his full lips against the top of his folded hands, clearly deep in thought. It's genuine and devout, and Minseok feels like an interloper, but it's also aesthetically beautiful, and he wants to see more. He's never understood faith, but he's seen people who do. 

Eventually, the man's eyes do close, and Minseok lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. This is not someone he has ever seen before, and he wants to know just who this young man is, _for many different reasons,_ some part of him whispers. This man's face is arresting. He looks very, very young at first, but eventually, he smiles, thinking of something; there are laugh lines, even crow's feet. Looking closer at his hands, Minseok can see the beginnings of spider veins, the kind that feel raised when one runs their fingers over the skin. A man capable of staying young, possibly by sheer force of will. 

He has to stop himself. He's a professional, and if possible, he needs to learn this man's name, the better to vet him. And yet, he does admit to himself, it's been a long, long time since he's seen a face so beautiful, so unguarded. 

Minseok rises, not wanting to have these thoughts in what is essentially a church, but his haste means he knocks his hymnal to one side. It makes a great and terrible sound, an awe-inspiring sound, thunking against wood loud enough to create a minor sonic boom in the nearly hollow space. All four other people in the room turn to look at him, including the new man, and it's hard not to curse out loud. It's hard to try and stem the flood of internal expletives long enough for him to leave hallowed ground, especially since for a fraction of a second, his eyes find the younger man's, dark, deep, and quietly amused. Now he really needs to hide.

He manages to leave casually, not racing or drawing further attention to himself, and yet he's angry inside. For all he knows this angelic-looking man is the next heir to the tong, and he's just made himself memorable. It doesn't take a genius to know that a sweet face can hide legions of evil. It's an inexcusable lapse, an error in judgment he'd upbraid an underling over.

Minseok steps out into the courtyard he's spent all day sculpting, needing some air. The stars overhead are surprisingly bright, trying their damnedest to penetrate into a city overrun with streetlamps and club lights. He's still on edge, still replaying the unintentional interaction in his brain, seeing the new man's eyes catch his with something that looked like a cross between amusement and curiosity - neither of which are conducive to conducting an investigation or even staying under the proverbial radar. Does a set of pretty eyes and a plush mouth destroy his concentration so easily?

It's just the novelty, he tells himself, nervously clenching and unclenching his fists as he walks in the near-darkness. It's seeing the same faces over and over and over in his work, so a new set of features is cause for his brain to comment. It's the only logical explanation. " _Ya, you,_ " he remonstrates with himself, looking down at the pavement, whisper soft into the night. 

There's a soft noise behind him, though, and when he turns, he comes face to face with the pair of deep brown eyes that had met his. The young man who owns them is smiling a little, not in a rude way, but something a little more than polite. "I'm sorry if I startled you," he says in a voice both quiet and warm, somehow oddly familiar. He smiles, the same smile as before, turning a baby face into a beautiful patchwork of laugh lines, crow's feet and smooth skin. "I wanted to make sure you were all right, gē; you looked very upset when you left the chapel." 

Minseok isn't incompetent enough to stutter or say anything that would blow his cover, but he does need a minute to collect himself. "Oh, I'm fine," he says in Mandarin, in his deliberately rough accent. "Just embarrassed; my clumsiness disturbed you and the other gentlemen." It's not a lie; he simply has to add professional panic on top of the individual awkwardness. 

"Oh, there's nothing to be embarrassed about; it happens to all of us." The young man smiles directly at him now, trying to look reassuring, and it's hard for Minseok to take it in. "Just, I don't know, I'm new here and everyone's been very kind to me; the least I felt like I could do was pass it on and try to reassure you. It'd be a shame if you didn't feel welcome or like you could come back because of one mistake." 

"It's nice of you to think of it." Minseok finally says, and he does mean it. Most people would just let the awkwardness simmer. He doesn't want to talk too long - he doesn't trust his Mandarin. But the least he can do is introduce himself. "I'm called Qiāng Yǐ." He holds out his hand to shake, as is more common in China than in Korea.

The young man smiles and inclines his head as he shakes Minseok's hand, clasping it with both of his. "My name is Lù Hán." Lù Hán's hands are chilled, and Minseok fights the damnably human impulse to rub them with his own. "It's very nice to meet you." 

"It's nice to meet you, Lù xiānshēng." He uses the polite form just to be safe. This man is well dressed and handsome, to say nothing of clearly devout. To be in his presence is something Minseok doesn't know how to categorize; he feels oddly at ease and thoroughly panicked at the same time, as if different lobes of his brain are fighting. His skin feels warm.

"Don't worry about formality." Lù Hán says, shaking his head with a smile. "I'm not used to it, so I might unintentionally ignore you." 

"All right." Minseok manages his own smile in return, though it's hard to keep it up. This isn't controlled; he can feel a vague sense of danger. He'd best not fuck this up.

He forces himself to think professionally, to put his brain to work on something besides confusing, dreamy fancies. "Have you been here very long, Lù-dì?" 

"No, not at all. I just got the grand tour earlier today." That basically confirms that this Lù Hán is the person who was in the underboss's office earlier. Minseok can hear the similarities in the voices, but he'd wanted to be sure; Lù is a common last name. "I'm a translator, so I'll likely have a lot to do." 

"Oh. To Korean?" Minseok remembers this, but he has to play the part. 

"Korean and Cantonese." Lù Hán replies. 

Minseok risks it, deliberately choosing simple words - it's easier to speak simply than to speak deliberately poorly. "I learned some Korean, but not much yet." He'll hate himself for this later, but there's something in him that wants to speak his own language with this man and his bottomless eyes. It's an intimacy he wants, and it worries him. 

Lù Hán chuckles, nodding. "That's really good, actually. The accent especially. I'd be happy to recommend some thing to help, if you'd like. Or even assist, if I have time." 

God help him, Minseok almost agrees. Never mind that it's his native language; never mind that to do so would blow his cover immediately. The idea of spending more time with Lù Hán is heady, almost intriguing. But he shakes his head no, after all, managing a smile. "Thank you, Lù-dì, but I have work that keeps me busy for now." 

"Maybe in the future, then." Lù Hán nods, still smiling, but Minseok somehow senses an undercurrent. Is he disappointed? Is he angling for something else? Is he perhaps trying to get close because he knows what Minseok is? 

"Yes, maybe." He needs to go, and think, and reassess. "I should go to bed, though; I need to be up early tomorrow." That isn't a lie, either. 

"Of course; I won't keep you. It was nice to meet you, Yǐ-ge." Lù Hán inclines his head, clearly meant as a respectful gesture, but he's still smiling, and it's still beautiful. Minseok can only flash a smile in return as he slinks off toward the dormitory. 

He doesn't breathe until he's walked in the front door and up the stairs to the second floor, or at least it doesn't feel like it. Minseok is reasonably certain that he's just catastrophically fucked something up. He's not entirely sure what yet, but he knows the fuck-up quotient has reached critical mass. 

He gets to his room, closing and locking the door. He quickly takes off the clothes he'd worn to the chapel, as if they're tainted somehow, and stripping down to his shorts will somehow wash that away. Minseok sets the clothes in the hamper, not realizing he's shoved them down under others until he tries to pull his hand up and it gets stuck for a second. Too much is happening.

Who is Lù Hán? What does he want? What is his agenda? And why was he looking at Minseok that way? Would the Triads actually have the balls to send a male honey trap, if they knew he was on to them? He's not sure. 

Minseok sighs, crawling into bed in just his shorts, staring moodily at the ceiling, willing his heart rate to decrease. He hasn't been discovered, at least as far as he knows. He doesn't want to have to bow out, or in extreme circumstances, to neutralize anyone. This is _his_ case, in _his_ milieu, and no one knows these fuckers like he does. Lù Hán is the only question mark. It's maddening.

He can ask Jongdae and the guys at the station to dig up what they can. But until they have something for him, there's nothing he can do - literally nothing. Any attempts to make friends with or try and get into Boss Wu's office might very plausibly get him killed. Minseok is, effectively, snakebitten. And he's not even sleepy, late though it may be; he just keeps running over the meeting, over the tone of voice, over the spark in those dark eyes. 

There is nothing he feels so much right now as _alone._

It's more than he wants to think about, but it doesn't stop his right hand from undoing the button on his boxer shorts and slipping inside. Minseok teases himself slightly as he remembers the fire in Lù Hán's eyes as he spoke of his plans - the passion in his voice, in the quirk of his mouth as he'd almost smiled, the way he'd offered so readily to give of his time to help a man he'd just met. Minseok likes people with passions, not least of all because they remind him that he needs not to lose his, but ambition and drive are even sexier when paired with mahogany eyes and the most beautiful hands he's ever seen. 

He thinks of those hands now, delicate but strong, one wrapping around his cock, the other maybe bracing Lù Hán's weight above him, maybe scratching down Minseok's bare chest, or fisting his hair, or sliding one finger between Minseok's swollen lips and letting him suck on it. Maybe two. Minseok's eyes close as he senses his cock stiffening, letting Lù Hán's imagined fingers roam, angry with himself, but letting it go as his thumb ghosts over the head, drawing out slickness and a soft intake of breath. 

He's always had a thing for long fingers, but the damnable part of this is that he can imagine those hands doing other things than jerking him off. He doesn't breach the ring of muscles around his ass; without lube that seems ill-advised. But he teases, and Minseok imagines his own short, compact hands being replaced by Lù Hán's, cupping his ass, the pad of one precise finger teasing inside him as he whispers indignities in Mandarin Chinese. He bites his lip, putting one foot up on the wall to get just a little further before the sting is too much. He's not one to like much pain being visited on him. He'd rather be babied a little, even taken care of, though he's happy to reciprocate. 

He wonders what Lù Hán likes. Would he go hard and fast, trying to show power? ( _His hand speeds up, and his hips begin to buck into his quivering fist._ ) Would he tease, with fingers discovering the tiny, intimate spots that make Minseok's mouth go dry and his eyes glaze over? ( _His free hand roughly pinches a hard nipple, imagining Lù Hán's meticulous teeth._ ) Would he be loud? Would he demand things of Minseok, would he deny him the chance to come until he'd begged for it? ( _His hand dives to wrap around the base of his cock, gripping hard to stave off the orgasm threatening to rip through him._ )

He prefers to think Lù Hán would be firm and in control; he likes the image of dark eyes turning heavy-lidded, of bitten lips attacking his, then trailing messily down his chest. Minseok can't stop whimpering, still gripping the base of his dick, hearing the soft voice lightly telling him not yet, not quite. He can feel the sensitivity building, and it's made worse when fingers scratch down his exposed stomach, then travel back up to caress his jaw and neck. Minseok takes two fingers into his mouth, licking and slowly sucking, hearing Lù Hán moaning softly in his head, asking for more. 

Thinking of Lù Hán moaning, praising his patience and his appeal, impatient to come, finally breaks through. Minseok lets the base of his cock go, and it barely takes two more hard pumps before he's coming painfully, back arching, shooting onto his stomach. He feels the stickiness, and he tastes blood on his lip as he bites down to keep from yowling loud enough to wake the dead. Catching his breath takes time, caught up in dreams grabbing a hold of him, and when he finally has the equilibrium to banish them, he's still dizzy enough where getting tissues to wipe off his stomach is an effort. 

The irritation with himself comes back as the fantasy fades. This isn't professional. This isn't even sane. Minseok sucks on his lip to stem the flow of blood, moodily flopping back into bed. This is a stupid fancy, brought on by nerves and the fact he hasn't had sex in maybe a year. That's _it._

In the morning, he'll get a hold of Jongdae and get the researchers on this Lù Hán. If he's a threat, Minseok will deal with him. If he's not, he's irrelevant. It's that simple. 

He lays down and tries to sleep. Eventually he manages it, but not until he can feel the phantom warmth of another body wrapped around his.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the song [Nature Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_YtyyfUF8g), specifically the version by David Bowie.


End file.
